The Boy in Blue
by D. M. Domini
Summary: A retelling and reinterpretation of The Masterharper of Pern, and the life of the greatest Harper that ever lived-Master Robinton.
1. Chapter 1

**The Boy in Blue**

A Pern fanfic by D. M. Domini

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Notes:

I can't deny there's a bit (or more than a bit) of hubris to attempt to (re)write a history for a major canon character that is beloved by many, many people. And yet, each time I'm writing fanfiction and I get frustrated with Robinton's backstory in _The Masterharper of Pern_ and how I feel it didn't do him justice, another voice in me says, "Well you know what? YOU haven't written this story. How do you know if it could be written better? What do you know at all? How can YOU be so critical when you haven't attempted to do the thing you're being critical of?"

So this is me attempting to talk the talk, and walk the walk.

My main goals are as follows: A) Tell a good story. B) Normalize the "tone" and events in _MHoP_ with the tone and world shown in _Dragonflight_. C) Make young Robinton believably kick as much ass as possible in a very dark era. D) Stay in character as much as possible, but use reasonable judgment to diverge from canon characterization, facts, and plots where it makes sense and will better serve the story.

Will I succeed? I hope you tell me!

Pern and all its characters are, of course, Anne McCaffrey's.

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**Chapter One**

"You will bring my son to me. Or I won't sing," the supine figure on the bed said quietly. "Not for you, not for _anyone_."

Petiron rose and raked his hands through his long chestnut hair, and paced to the window. But in a frustrated movement, before he'd even taken in the sights outside, he paced back again. "Your Healer has already told the Masterharper you're fit—"

"Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. But I _want my son_, Petiron."

"Children of people like us are _fostered_, Merelan," her tall husband said, trying to be persuasive but clearly emanating a shade of anger at her denseness. "Boys in particular take so much time and energy to raise, and we both know you don't have much to spare!"

"If I don't have much to spare, I should spend it as I wish! Before it all burns out!" she cried.

Petiron turned white at this declaration, and stared down at his wife.

She returned his gaze defiantly for a second, and then she coughed, an unfeigned cough, and lowered her eyes away from the real fear and concern in his face.

Master Petiron of the Harper Hall came over to kneel next to her bed, and take one of her hands in his. "You _have_ to sing for this, dawn of my heart, light of my life. You can _not_ over-stress yourself. The Lord at Benden—"

"Will live, hearing a treble in a wig and dress singing your songs."

"But he won't support the Hall, if he hears of _you_, a lone woman, defying our Craftmaster when he specifically asked for you. High Reaches has already turned its favor away, placing its education in the hands of its 'self-appointed tutors'." A look of distaste and slight fear passed over Petiron's mobile face. "If a few more major Holds do the same, we may lose recognition as a legitimate Craft, and have no more unity among our practitioners or respect than a common cook does. Crafts have dissolved before. And the next generation won't learn their history, or their rights under the Charter. High Reaches' Lord deems such things unnecessary for those who lead 'simple lives'. What if the rest follow?"

Merelan stared at her husband, and thinned her lips. "You're a cruel man, Petiron, to take my son away from me and then attempt to say the fate of the Harper Hall and a Hold full of people depends on me singing, when I try to trade _the only thing I have of worth_ to change an action _you_ have taken. Why _should_ I fight for the Harper Hall? It doesn't even recognize me as one of its own! Why should I do what _your master_ commands _me_ to do?"

Petiron frowned at the bitterness in her voice, and caressed her hand with his gently. "I didn't say you couldn't see our son," he said in a gruff tone. "You don't have to trade anything for that."

She took her hand away. "But you've placed him in a foster mother's crèche! What, will I see him twice a seven-day now? Perhaps three times as a treat? How exactly shall I be a mother to him in that manner?"

"He's in a crèche at Fort Hold. It's not across the continent," Petiron said. "The Harper Hall has no extra women to do fostering or be wet-nurses."

"If the Harper Hall had women as Harpers, there would be," she said, archly.

Her husband raised an eyebrow. "If the Harper Hall had women as Harpers...I would dearly hope they would be focusing on their Craft. As I am. As _you_ should be."

She felt fury that she had to choose one or another. But knew in her heart her son came first. "Well...perhaps I don't want to be a Harper then," she said, knowing her tone was petulant. But what other role had she been given? Not allowed to be a mother, not allowed to be a Crafter! Not unless it suited someone else's whims. Her life was being dictated like a child's.

And Petiron, unthinkingly, reinforced this. "With an attitude like this, perhaps you _shouldn't _be a Harper."

Anger flashed in her eyes at his cold tone, for they both knew—and he had admitted in the past—she was as skilled as any male Harper, and better than most of them in her chosen discipline of voice. And yet...here she was, trying as hard as she bloody could to be a mother instead, even if that meant losing the hard-won begrudging place she had in the Harper Hall as a "non-ranking" singer.

Little Robinton, just two turns old, had brought a great and profound joy and meaning to her life, even above the joy she found in her husband (when he wasn't being like _this_) and music (when her talent wasn't being bartered like a game piece to keep the Harper Hall's doors open and Hold patronage flowing in). But her pregnancy with Robinton and his birth had been long and difficult, and she'd always been weak in health, and the Healers had told them she could not have another child without risking her own life. So Robinton was the _only_ child she'd ever have. She didn't want to miss a day of it, not for anything under the sun and moons. She wanted to sing lullabies to him, see the laughter in his sweet blue eyes. She wanted to bathe him and play with him and teach him about every stray stick and inkwell and sock and musical score he brought to her to examine. She wanted to tell him fantastic stories about dragons, and watch his eyes widen in awe. When he fell and hurt his knees, she wanted to wipe his tears, and dab numbweed on the scrapes to take the pain away. At night, she wanted to tuck him in and sing him to sleep. As she had for the past two turns.

If he was at Fort Hold under another woman's care, she would miss most of that. And the thought was intolerable to her. Why couldn't Petiron _understand_ that by putting their son in foster care he was ripping a part of her heart out of her chest? Sure, it seemed likely that the Masterharper would stop having her perform on stage if she made childcare a priority now that Robinton was out of infancy. She could only be up and about so many hours in a day as it was, and caring for a child would drain that. But she would always still be there for Petiron, would be there to sing for _his_ songs, in the privacy of their quarters. Did he not understand this?

Petiron. What a stubborn, hard-headed man! Which was both the source of his musical masterpieces, and the source of their strife. "I want to see my son," she repeated to him again, weary.

"I already said you can see him," Petiron said.

"I _do not want him fostered."_ As if he needed the point clarified!

He frowned, the gesture drawing long lines on either side of his mouth, making him look older than he was. Then he said, clearly, and with finality, "No."

No. He had said _no_.

Merelan hated her husband in that instant, and she turned her face away from him on the pillow, struggling not to let the tears fall.

"If you think weeping will make me change my mind—"

"Do you see A SINGLE TEAR _RUNNING DOWN THIS FACE?!_" she demanded, the tears that threatened vanishing under the flash of searing anger, and it was only when he stepped back in alarm that she realized she'd ended the question at the top of her lungs. With a faint moment of pride in the back of her head, she noted that her intonation was not that of a shrill woman being thwarted, but with the nuance and support of a righteously enraged Weyrwoman. Moreta, perhaps. Or the fantastic, but never-realized in history, Lady Holder, sole ruler of a major Hold, archetype.

Petiron turned away. "You're overwrought—"

"A clichéd, and overused, line. And here I thought you were a Master Composer!" A sardonic little bitter laugh escaped her throat.

"You are _upset_, then_—_"

"You noticed? How clever your powers of observation!"

"—and you are tiring yourself out—"

Now she dropped the mockery, switched back to anger. "Only because you're being a right bastard, Petiron. Robinton is _my son_, my only child, and this matters to me! You decided to foster him without even _asking!_"

"And I will bring Robinton here for a visit, so that you can see he is all right, we shall stop shouting and fighting."

That was true enough, for she had no inclination of fighting in front of Robinton. And since she did want to see him, she did not reply to Petiron's declaration, distasteful as it was to cater to his act of restoring control to this situation. "Very well."

Giving her a wary look, Petiron hesitated, as if he were going to say more, or waiting for her to do so, but then he turned away and quickly left.

"Very well." Or _not_. She would _not_ let him do this. She just had to figure out the _how_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

It distressed Merelan to realize that, in the time it had taken Petiron to leave the Harper Hall, go to Fort Hold and gather up their son, and return, she had fallen into a doze. Her recent, lingering illness had tired her even more than usual, and fighting with Petiron did not help.

But the most distressing thing about her abrupt doze was—if she could drift off while contemplating how to overturn Petiron's decision, how could she _possibly_ put into effect any plan to recover Robinton's care?

She sat up in bed thinking about this, and poured herself a cup of cold klah from the bed stand, but managed to be awake and smiling when Petiron entered their bedroom, holding a bored-looking toddler who at the moment seemed more interested in the stick of sugar clenched in one chubby hand than anyone else.

"Robie," Merelan said, and put her cup of disgusting klah down before spreading her arms wide to receive him.

"Hi Mama," Robinton said as Petiron set him down on the bed before her, and threw sticky arms around her neck before she could stop him. The wet-ended stick of candy got caught in her hair, and for a few moments, the two of them worked on removing one from the other, although Robinton still jammed the treat back into his mouth with a hair still stuck to it. He made a disgusted face and pulled it back out, and then stood on the bed next to her, attempting to use fine motor skills to pick the long golden hair off of his candy and out of his mouth. "Ew."

"Yes, I never find eating hair appealing either," Merelan agreed with him.

"I'm glad he's learning some taste," Petiron murmured to himself in the background. "He was eating dirt a turn ago." He snorted at the doings of babies, then turned and left.

Merelan ignored him, relieved he had no intention of lingering. She'd had quite enough of Petiron this afternoon. "How have you been, my son?"

Robinton spent a moment pulling the hair away, then he wiped his whole hand on the side of his shirt. Then he looked at her, and his eyes widened. "I learned a song!"

Merelan gasped in delight. "Did you, now? What was it about?" Then she turned her head to cough off to the side, and not in her son's face.

"Wherries and woolies," Robinton said. "One to eat, and one to wear!"

She put on a look of over-emphasized concentration. "So...you _eat_ the woolies and _wear_ the wherries? Is that how it goes?"

Her son grinned. "No! You _eat_ the wherries, _wear_ the woolies, and _wear_ the _wher_." He seemed particularly pleased about how "wear the wher" sounded, and sang the line softly to himself a few times. He was in tune.

"Hmmm," she replied thoughtfully. "Only dragonriders wear the wher. That's how they protect themselves from _between_. Whers make better leather for that type of cold. That's why they call it wherhide."

Robinton thought about this. "Oh. Why didn't they say so in the song?"

"I don't know. But you can teach your friends that, now that _you_ know."

"Yeah," the boy agreed. If young children could be well-learned, Robinton was, and easily acted the mentor of his age group, and would patiently explain everything he knew to any new child that looked vaguely his age...and some that were older.

Then he stuck the de-haired candy in his mouth, and walked carefully away on the uneven surface of the bedding. He was a tall toddler, but not quite so tall that he found it entirely easy to climb off the bed, so he dropped to his knees, scooted backwards to the edge, and put his feet down to the floor while she watched, ready to catch him if his grip on the furs slipped.

However, despite his height, he was well-coordinated and made it down safely, even with a stick of candy in one fist, and he wandered across the room, scratching his upper lip under his nose. Or perhaps he was picking his nose. "Robie," she warned, and he dropped the hand with a cute abashed look at her. Then he let out a shout and went running into the other room in excitement.

Merelan wasn't sure what had caught his attention in the other room, but she felt she should probably go see, so she flipped the furs off of her legs and slowly, achingly got out of bed. The stone of the floor was pleasantly cool under her feet though, and after stretching and pulling her nightclothes around her and fastening it with a belt, she padded after her son...

...who had found a small piccolo case open on one of the lower shelves, and was trying to carefully get it down.

"Robie, where's _your_ recorder?" Merelan asked, distracting him. As much as she loved her son—and thought he was progressing excellently musically for a child his age—he wasn't quite ready for a valved pipe.

"It's away. Oh. At Fort. With my things."

Merelan thinned her lips at that. Then she reached down and took the piccolo case away from him. His face immediately fell.

"Here, then," she said, easily swayed, and extracted only the mouthpiece. "Can you get a sweet sound from this? Give me your candy, first." Which Robinton did, eagerly exchanging the stick for the mouthpiece of the pipe. He didn't even _try_ to keep both, which struck her as very amusing, for she'd seen many a war between child and mother when two attractive things were in reach of both chubby fists. No, young Robinton thought the pipe the greater prize!

And the rest of the musical instrument she lifted to a higher shelf that he could not yet reach, even with the use of one of the stools in the room. The half-eaten sweet she transferred to a porcelain tray, before washing her hands at the basin.

A clear but soft _fwee ffwee fweee_ followed her around shortly as she returned to the bedroom to dress.

Despite Petiron's acquiescing to her short term desire and bringing her son here for her to see, she knew the fight was not over, merely delayed. Nor had Petiron backed down in insisting she had to sing for the event in Benden. He had only dropped the subject.

If she merely sat in here, with her son, what would happen is Petiron would remain stubborn, and if she were stubborn too and refused to sing, and what Petiron said was true, Masterharper Longlend or one of his Journeymen might become involved. And she was loathe to involve the Masterharper in a dispute that was undeniably domestic. She simply wanted to raise her son, she, not some other woman, and the only thing she had to bargain with was her talent. Perhaps if she were a different woman, she could nag and torment her husband so much he would give in—but she, Merelan, couldn't do that. She could be angry if the reason was righteous, but she could not torture or string it out enough to make a man like Petiron break. She was not that type of person, and would not want to be.

Which meant she had to find another way. Perhaps an ally, one she wouldn't be ashamed to consult in a matter like this.

Could it be as simple as going to the Masterharper, and telling him simply that she would not sing unless her son was a part of her household? And see if he would order her husband to stop being a fool?

She suspected not. A Crafthall was not the same as a Hold. Were they living at Fort, she might go to the Lady Holder most likely and petition the woman to consult and make a judgment in the Lord Holder's name on the domestic matter, which could then naturally resolve the Craft matter because her son would return to her care, and she would sing as requested. But Master Longlend's wife held no such rank, nor did the Headwoman of the Hall, and it seemed odd to go to Fort for this as she lived inside the Harper Hall. Typically the Masterharper would only stand in to make judgment on something of Craft importance, or stand as a neutral party for outside conflicts, or, in the worst cases, exile someone from his Hall, but Merelan was practically blackmailing her husband in this domestic matter if she did not get her way, and unusually it could have a real effect on a Hall production. As she did not have formal rank in the Harper Hall, the Masterharper's most likely course would be to make life difficult for Petiron if she did not sing, as he could not order _her_. Not by custom at least. Did she want to try to force that? It felt like a betrayal of the man she loved. He may have betrayed her by this...this...mess! But it didn't mean _she_ had to take an eye for an eye.

It was a _messy_, unlikable way to go about things. If only Petiron would _understand!_

Fostering law was Common Law, not Charter Law. While the Harper Hall required its Harpers to know Charter Law back, forth, sideways, and backwards, she was fairly certain nothing about fostering would appear in the Charter. Instead, fostering law would be governed by the Hold. Or perhaps the Weyr. Were she to get a judgment under Hold Law, she suspected, infuriatingly, it would favor her husband, solely because he _was_ her husband, and supporting her with his career. And if she somehow astonishingly forced a judgment under Weyr law (absurd to contemplate since the only Weyr was on the other side of the continent and was not prone to interfering outside its confines!), it would likely favor the same outcome, but for different reasons. Dragonriders had a long history of fostering their children. And if there was precedent in the other Crafthalls...and the Masterharper surprisingly did try to make a decision on the domestic matter instead of the Craft matter...it could easily go either way. If it were argued she was not unlike a goldrider, a woman with a duty outside of child rearing, fostering would be the so-called 'logical' choice. If it were argued she were Petiron's wife, _he_ would have the final say. Which she already knew the outcome of.

_Blast_ that man. And all of these thoughts on asking someone to decide for them assumed she'd be willing to drag this private matter into public! Petiron would be incensed that she would do something like this that would affect his career, and she knew quite well that a Master Composer being in a public fight with his Singer and wife would get the gossips going overtime. They already felt as if they had to comment on her sicknesses.

_Fwee, f-fwee fwee fwee fweet! FWEET!_

Merelan winced, but judging by the abrupt silence after that last shriek, Robinton had too, and was reconsidering his dynamics. "Robie!" she called through the doorway. "Pianissimo, please!"

He didn't answer, but a few moments later she heard a quiet _fweeeeeeeee._

She pulled off her nightshirt, and put it in the wicker hamper, then pulled out some clothing she would feel comfortable appearing in public in. Then she sat, panting a little and coughing once or twice, before summoning the energy to stand again and draw the garments on. She wore her deep red dress, the one with the black stitching, for she still felt quite ornery, and wanted to express it in some small way even though she knew she would be smiling at whomever she came across, and the soft leather slippers she used indoors at the Hall, with flat soles, and easy ties. Then she sat again, presumably to brush her hair out but also to rest a little more, and then finally felt ready to face the world.

When she emerged, Robinton had momentarily stopped playing with the piccolo mouthpiece and was examining the inside of it by the light through the window. Merelan reached down to put a hand on his head—his hair was long and dark like his father's and soft like hers—then crouched down to pull him close and give him a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. He reapplied the pipe mouthpiece to his mouth and tweeted in her ear softly.

"Are you going to be a Harper when you grow up?" she asked him with a smile.

"I am! I _am_ a Harper!"

"Oh?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you now. Already? So who are you Apprenticed to?"

"To you! I will be a Singer! I will be treble, and when you are sick, I will sing instead."

Merelan blinked, and felt tears suddenly sting. He wanted to be a Harper. Not like _Petiron_, not like the _Masterharper_, not like Journeyman Arnor in the Archives or any of the other men in the Crafthall, but like _her_. She didn't tell him she wasn't really a Harper.

_And, _in addition to _that_, he wanted to be able to take her place when she could not sing.

She wasn't sure what she'd done to deserve this sweet little boy, but she loved him to death, and squeezed him tight to her. Oblivious to the feelings his casual kindness had engendered, he struggled to get away and tweet his pipe some more, and eventually she let him.

**Author's Note: **Different Masterharper name is intentional. Aside from a few core characters, I'll probably shuffle around and rename/remake many supporting characters to better serve the story. The Harper Hall was pretty much failing in its influence as a craft when Robinton got it; there has to be a reason.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Evaleen—what do _you_ do when your husband makes a boneheaded decision?" Merelan asked warming her fingers on a fresh mug of klah while Robinton played with Evaleen's daughter Silvina. As she said it, she watched the children. Silvina was barely a year old, with huge blue eyes, a shock of wild dark hair, and pale skin that glowed like the moons, and couldn't quite walk yet, but that didn't prevent her from crawling everywhere. In fact, Robinton was running around just a few steps in front of her, letting her chase him all over the place. Evaleen's quarters rang with their uninhibited squeals, shouts, and giggling. The two children clearly thought "chase me" was the best game _ever_.

"Is Petiron being obstinate again?"

Merelan looked down into her klah, watching fine particles of bark swirl. "I suppose so."

Evaleen let out a snort. "I'm guessing 'obstinate' is too mild then. I know you, Merelan. If you've gone beyond mild exasperation with him to saying nothing at all, he's probably being a bloody wher and you're too honorable to go around bad-mouthing him. As much as you want to."

"I don't _want_ to—"

"I know, I know. You love him. But between you and me, you spend far more time carrying your end of the relationship than he does his. Why is that?"

Merelan gave her friend a half-smile tinged with sadness. "Because I'm a woman, and care about such things. Sometimes I wish—" and she hesitated.

"Mmm?"

"I think..." and Merelan hesitated again, before charging on. "Sometimes I wish I had been born male."

"Hmm."

"Not in the way of the Weyrs, mind you. Or actually...I suppose if I were born male, but continued to have a fondness for males—"

Evaleen began to chuckle.

"Stop that. I mean that I think I'd be seen as _me_ a little more. When I smooth something over, or phrase something diplomatically, Petiron assumes it's something I do because I'm a _woman_. The idea is so engrained that he doesn't listen until I start to raise my voice, and I _hate_ doing that. I don't _want_ to do that. It's not who I am at all! I just want to be listened to! And men—if I were a _man_, he would take my attempts to negotiate seriously. He would recognize topics that I held dear as being held dear for some concrete reason, not whim or emotion. Or he would see the emotion was just. I've _seen_ him act as much. But it's like he _assumes_ I should be tactful, and _assumes_ I am over emotional if I have a passion for something—never mind there are plenty of women who shriek like harridans all the time, or are nothing but ice, and plenty of over-emotional lads that'll throw as pretty a tantrum as you'd ever see if they don't get the part they're aiming for."

"Not to mention, if you were male, you'd be Harper in rank as well as fact."

Merelan waved a hand. "I don't care. I appreciate that I'm allowed to perform with Harpers, mind you, but it's the music I love, not the rank."

"What if you were a woman with rank? Wouldn't Petiron have to take you seriously then?"

Merelan gave another half-smile. "Do you really think having a Master's knot on my shoulder would suddenly equip him with the ability to see past my sex? He _does_ already acknowledge my talent—and yet, here we are!"

"You still haven't told me where it is you are," Evaleen pointed out.

Merelan lowered her voice, so her son wouldn't hear his name. "He wants to foster Robinton."

"Wants to?"

The sudden prick of tears and lump in her throat surprised her, and she spent a moment trying to keep rein on her composure. "No, I was incorrect. He already has."

"Oh, my dear," Evaleen said.

Merelan felt her brows draw together.

"Hey!" and Evaleen whacked her on the arm suddenly.

Merelan jumped and blinked.

"No tears!" Evaleen commanded.

And that made Merelan laugh, although her throat still ached with pain. "And you see? I'm being _womanly_."

"Oh that husband of yours is a right bastard, if you're saying 'womanly' like it's a bad thing. I should throttle him."

"I don't think it's a _bad_ thing!"

"Well, it looks like half your mind says it isn't, and the other half is desperately hoping other people's perceptions of it aren't true. You're too sensitive _not_ to see it, or have double-thoughts about it, particularly if your own husband is being a shit. And you're not..._cut-throat_ enough to take advantage of it."

Merelan's eyes widened as she took the other woman's meaning. "Never! I have honor."

"I know you do, my friend. Which is too bad, because if you didn't you'd have more options open to you."

She gritted her teeth, then took a gulp of klah. "I know." Then she recalled what she'd threatened Petiron with. "Or maybe not."

"Mmm?"

"I've been told one of the Lords has asked me to perform for him. And I said to Petiron, perhaps I would not, unless my son stays with us."

"Good for you."

Merelan slid her gaze over. "Is it? High Reaches has already decided it no longer needs Harpers, and after Fort and Ruatha, it's one of the closest major Holds. Benden is all the way across the continent, and has little love for the old ballads, the ones that praise the dragonriders—which Benden still has to tithe to, even though thread hasn't fallen for centuries. If Benden Hold is starting to see us only as entertainment, and chafes at the old songs, and I _don't_ sing—"

"But you're not a ranking Harper, my dear. Most of the support you get from the Harper Hall comes to you through Petiron. All your singing is contract. You don't even work in the kitchens. The Masterharper has no say over the spouses of Harpers, not unless a crime has occurred." She paused. "I suppose this is one of the benefits of _not_ holding rank."

"The Masterharper could penalize Petiron."

"Then Petiron had better end the fostering agreement he made without your permission! It's not a hard decision to make, if Petiron knows what's good for him."

"You think this is the right tactic to take? I think he'll feel I am attacking him."

"He attacked first."

"He wouldn't see it that way."

"Doesn't mean he didn't, though. It just means his perception is wrong."

Merelan thought about this, and for a while the women fell silent. The two children made up for it, however, and Merelan found herself watching as Robinton went up to Silvina, who was sitting on her diapered bottom, and put his arms around her in a big hug. And then he tried to lift. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work too well, and Silvina just giggled and bounced. Then he took her flailing hands, and pulled her into a standing position, where she wobbled precariously. "See, this is how you walk, 'Vina," he told her. Then one or the other of them mis-stepped, and they fell down in a sudden heap—which made Silvina start to cry before Robinton distracted her with tickling with turned her short wail into gleeful hiccupping giggles and coos.

"Is it wrong that I suddenly want to promise them to each other in marriage," Merelan said with a smile. "They play so well together!"

"Oh, believe me, Robinton isn't the first little boy being offered to Silvina. He'll have to wait in line. She'll have the pick of the Hall—and Hold!" Evaleen said smugly.

Merelan smiled, for Silvina was both a pretty and happy baby. Then, as she watched them, a thought occurred to her. "What if I go to Benden?"

"Wasn't that contingent on the fostering ending?"

"He's going to mention how that would harm the Harper Hall. And, Evaleen—I may not be a Harper in rank, but I don't want to hurt the Hall. Lords can be very touchy! But if the Lord of Benden wants me to sing—why don't I go there? And stay? For as long as they'll have me?"

Evaleen's eyes widened. "I see. And you'll see if Petiron feels he can do without his son _and_ without you."

"Exactly. And it will all stay a domestic matter. I will fulfill this _one_ promise that's been made in my name. The Masterharper will have no cause to be wroth with me or Petiron. And then, Petiron will end the fostering if he wants me to come back home."

"Since you're so far away, too, there will be little chance of them making more promises in your name. It will take a long time for you to make the trip back to the Harper Hall, and letters to you are easily mislaid."

Merelan nodded.

"I like your plan. But, sweetie, have you thought of one thing?"

"What is that?"

"Have you thought of the possibility that he won't follow you?"

#

Later on that afternoon, snuggled up in a padded chair with a quilt around her and a writing desk on her lap, Merelan reflected that, should Petiron not react as she expected, she could be without a husband or son. But, she thought there was little chance of that. Did that make her a wretched woman? That she would bank on his love and attraction to her so much that even a move like this one—which he would undoubtedly be furious at and hurt by—would not break their relationship permanently?

Then again, as Evaleen had pointed out, with different wording—he'd already gambled that her love for him was so strong that she'd give up her only child. And he was wrong, yet _still _did not believe it when she tried to explain this to him. She was certainly not the one rocking the boat to begin with.

So during the two hours that she knew Petiron would be in rehearsal this evening, she penned a letter to Lord Reed of Benden Hold. She told him she was honored that he enjoyed her singing, and made small-talk to put him at ease. And among it all, she asked him—would he be interested in hosting her and her son for longer than a single gather?

The only thing she worried about was if he would take her request as an invitation to betray her marriage in a way she didn't intend to betray it. Then again, Lord Reed was known to be faithful to his wife, unlike Lord Groghellan of Fort who philandered wherever he went. So perhaps there would be no worry. And then she smiled at herself, because she was assuming a _Lord_ would be interested in her to begin with! What folly!

Once she was done with the letter, she read it a few times, and, satisfied, sealed it with Petiron's seal as Master Composer modified with her thumbprint and initials under it, the ridges clearly visible in the blue wax. Then she uncurled out of the chair, and went for a short jaunt to the office the runners maintained on the Healer side of the Hall. There, she paid a pretty mark to get the letter sent off to Benden Hold as quickly as possible, probably riding along with letters sent east by the Masterharper himself. But what were a few marks when weighed against her future with her son?

Later that evening, she delivered Robinton to the nursery for dinner, and joined her husband in the dining room. She was incredibly tired, this day being longer and more strenuous than what she was used to, but she wanted the time being in a public arena would bring. She planned to clue her husband in to her plans, out here in front of everyone where he would be forced to shut up and think before flying off the handle.

At the meal, Petiron was in a sour mood, due to some shenanigans that had occurred during the session. This wasn't unusual, however—he liked to gripe to her to get things off of his chest. So she lent him an ear, and murmured soothing ideas to get him to look at the situation in a different manner. Little by little, he relaxed.

And then she let the hammer drop. "Do you recall our discussion from earlier?" she asked pleasantly, a gentle expression on her face as she scraped the last spoon-fulls of sweet pudding from her bowl.

His expression became guarded. "Naturally."

"You were right about how declining would affect perception. The whole matter 'up north' is worrying, and to have it on the east too would be a disaster."

He grunted. It was not his wont to show pleasure when someone came around to his way of thinking, but she interpreted this as him feeling pleased.

"So since my presence would have such a soothing effect, I think now would be a good time to have a vacation. I've always wanted to sample the wines, too, directly from the source."

"A vacation?" A tiny expression of bafflement appeared in his eyes.

"For my health." She dropped her voice. "For _our_ health." Then she let him think.

After a while, he asked, "For how long?"

"Perhaps a turn."

He shot her a surprised look, which she met with a smile. "—a tur—" and he stopped himself from saying anything more.

"With one of us living at the Hold, it shouldn't be a problem if I am out east. As you've demonstrated, our family bonds should be strong enough to survive it. And as you've told me, the situation east is delicate. If there's anything I can do to help, I should. I'm sure you understand, my dear." And she wiped her mouth with her napkin, and rose and gave him a kiss on the cheek while he stared at her, torn between wanting to protest, and the need to keep decorum in public. Then she left the dining room.

A part of her was distressed at being so conniving...but not enough that she wasn't smiling as she walked through the halls.

#

"I don't think it will take a _turn_ to resolve—"

"You forget, Petiron, that it was _you_ that linked my performance for Benden to a topic very dear to my heart. And, I admit, your concerns about the 'situation' at Benden are likely not unfounded."

"Well, it's only common sense—but I don't think a _turn—_"

"_I_ am the one requested. _I_ am the one who will be performing. I think, since you all involved me already without consulting me, that _I_ will decide when the situation is resolved over there."

Petiron frowned. "I think you are still upset—"

"I. Am. _Furious_. But my anger doesn't mean you weren't correct that Benden might be the next High Reaches. Strangely enough, I have multiple reasons for what I do. Whether _you_ think I'm sophisticated enough to have multiple motivations or not!"

#

Petiron slept in his office that night. Not because she denied him his own bed, but because he chose to. Still, it hurt that in the not too distant future, should he stay stubborn and should the Benden Lord agree, she would be very far away and yet he'd squander the time they had left by sleeping in his office. Stubborn old rock-headed man.

A seven-day passed, with Robinton still living with his new foster mother at Fort, and Merelan visiting him so often that first the foster-mother pulled her aside and said he'd never re-attach if she kept hanging around, and then her Healer pulled her aside and chided her for walking about so much when she was still weak. She diverted him by asking what he'd recommend if she were to journey to Benden Hold. His eyes bugged out and then he said, tersely, "Dragonback. Which isn't going to happen, so I _suggest_ you stay home."

Then another seven-day passed, and she got a note from the drum heights.

Lord Reed had accepted her proposal.

Somehow, everything up to that point had been done relatively calmly. Well, except when Petiron hurt her in some new and unexpected way...then she got _angry_. But when she got the note, she felt fear rush through her body, and make her knees give out. She sat on one of the sofas in their quarters, and read the note again. And again.

Petiron found her like that, and, seeing how pale she was, rushed to her side. He'd always been afraid for her health. She kept the small note crumpled into her hand, and let him hold her.

Realizing she had something clenched in her fingers, Petiron forced them open, and read the note. She felt him go tense as he understood what it meant. "You sent him a _letter_?"

"I did," she said weakly.

He shot to his feet. Then he balled up the note from the drum heights, and with a violence she'd never seen from him, threw it into the hearth. The hearth was not lit, so he scowled at the crumpled hide and with resolution, gathered materials to light a fire so the note could burn.

"So, do you suddenly understand what it feels like to have someone you care about leave you?" she asked. "Be taken away from you?"

He ignored her.

She got up and went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind her. She could hear him swear as the fire didn't light easily. There he was! Trying to burn the note instead of talking to her, instead of admitting that she had a point. She felt a grimace spread across her face, and one by one, tears started to roll down her cheeks, as much as she hated the fact that they did so.

So she began to undress, undoing the laces of her dress, and wiping the tears away on the fabric before delegating the garment to the hamper. Then she lay down in bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin. Swallowing back more tears, swallowing back the burning anger at her emotionally senseless husband, she instead began to rehearse ways to explain this to Robinton. She still felt sure that, eventually, Petiron would relent and end the fostering. But how to instill that certainty into young Robinton? So he would not cry for her? Was there even a way to explain to him, young as he was?

Petiron didn't come to bed that night. And eventually, thoughts of her son in her head, she fell asleep without him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

In the end, she kept it simple. She told Robinton that she was going to Benden Hold to sing for everyone there. She could see this made sense to him; he loved to listen to her sing, and it was sad that people so far away couldn't hear her, so she _should_ travel and let them listen. She already went to Ruatha and South Boll from time to time.

Then she told him she would be back. He accepted this too, and she suspected it was because she'd always returned before.

Then she told him it might be a long time before she returned. This he got quiet at, and she wondered what thoughts he was thinking behind those serious blue eyes. Then he looked away, and said okay. She hugged him, and he hugged her back, accidentally prodding her in the ribs with a pointy, child-sized drumstick. She didn't chide him to be more careful, because she didn't want him to remember her in that way, should this whole episode take more than a month or two.

Then a Journeyman loaded her gear into the Trader caravan she would be travelling with, and off she went.

Petiron didn't say goodbye. He was teaching at this hour, and decided not to interrupt it to see her off.

She rode next to a smiling but quiet widowed Trader woman named Trosanna, who saw her exhaustion despite the early hour of day, and let her doze in the sun as the heavily muscled, fluffy-footed runners pulled them and the caravan along. And before Merelan knew it, she awoke again, and found that they were beyond the limit to which she and her husband usually travelled when going for day trips here and there. The road and scenery were unfamiliar. So she turned to her companion, and began to ask questions. This caused the woman's face to light up in enjoyment, and the shared a good conversation about the roads this year, and the stops they would make on their way to Benden Hold clear across the continent.

It turned out that this Trader caravan was not a usual one. It was a 'courting caravan', where a selection of male and female siblings and cousins from various clans came together in a temporary, new caravan, for the purposes of finding a husband or wife. As such, it was a bit rowdier and full of impish fun than the typical caravan, but decidedly less full of children and old aunties and uncles. The first night they camped and she sang, Trosanna had to shut down their enthusiasm and teach them that Merelan didn't quite have their stamina that they had, to sing song after song.

"But she sings so effortlessly!" someone said with a laugh.

"And that's the mark of a true master! To do something that none of you could do in a hundred turns and make it look _simple_!"

So the young men and women accepted it in stride. Amusingly, Merelan found herself slipping into the role of mentor to some of the young woman, despite having less than ten turns on most of them. But still, she was a wife and mother, _not _related to any of them and thus having no personal stakes in the matter, and also as a performer had some experience in understanding people. And in return, as the days got hotter and hotter, the young women dressed Merelan in paler, lighter fabrics that somehow kept her cooler despite the volume of cloth used. She quite liked this type of desert garb, although she knew she stood out among them, having neither the reddish hair and marauding freckles, nor the black hair and klah-brown skin that Trader-kind tended to have. Instead, her face and arms tanned deeply, and her medium golden hair became lighter.

However, a few sevendays later, she learned that even if she could see a distinction between the way she looked and the way Traders bred and born looked, others could not.

#

The first indication of trouble came when the two brothers that led the caravan let out a series of quick, peculiar cries that carried above the normal din of the day. Trosanna stopped the runners that pulled them along, and surprised Merelan, who had been putting together an on-the-road lunch for the both of them, by abruptly entering the wagon and unlocking a panel in the wall and sliding it down.

On the other side of it hung a crossbow and bolts.

"Woodsie folk, Holdless, or even Holders who think _we_ are one of the former—does it matter? The Leader-Lads think it's a threat. It's amazing we've not been tried yet, anyhow, being what we are."

"What?" Merelan said, suddenly wondering if she perhaps had not investigated the caravan thoroughly enough before leaving. But she'd ridden with Traders before, and hadn't thought...

Trosanna glanced at her. "We're a new caravan, untried as a team, and young. So they're trying us."

"What can I do?" Merelan asked.

"Take the reins. I'd like to keep both hands free for this. I'll tell you how to circle her up with the others."

So Merelan abandoned their food and stepped out of the wagon to sit at the driver's bench. Trosanna, crossbow loaded and cocked, came out and sat next to her, and placed a full giver of bolts between her knees. "Remember how we took the curves out of the mountains? It's just like that. Go on, point Stripebum's nose at that wagon's tail—" she referred to the lead runner. "And he knows the drill. Here we go—"

Hands beginning to shake on the reins, Merelan did as the other woman directed, and got their wagon in line. However, she wasn't sure what had prompted the problem—all she could see on either side were long, yellow grasses waving in the wind.

And then, as she watched, she observed the strangest thing: the blindfolded head of a golden wher raised up out of the grass, followed by quivering, misshapen wings. Chains swooped down from where they attached by a ring in her sensitive nose, into the grass, and it stretched its blindfolded head forward, mouth slightly agape, as it scented in their direction, trembling, head-weaving as it did so.

No wild wher would be so fitted with human-made accessories. In fact, not even Hold whers looked like that; _these_ chains depended on pain rather than strength to hold the wher in check. And Merelan realized that there had to be a man at the end of that chain, lying in the grass.

If there was one man, with a wher, out there—were there more?

As their runners pulled the circle tighter, pulling left in their traces so that wood wagon touched wood wagon and all the animals were in the center, Merelan saw a projectile from their circle fly out and miss the straining, sniffing queen wher.

"You _idiot!_" she heard someone snap—and then she saw two, five, seven more whers rise up out of the grass, each one with nose-chains leading down to hidden handlers below.

"Get out of the driver's seat!" and Merelan complied, opting to vault herself into the wagon to find a weapon, any weapon...a knife, a pot—

Behind her was a short, "Hyah!" and the sound of multiple crossbows releasing.

A single wher screamed, its bugle-voice rising up into a demented flute-like shriek.

Merelan didn't know what to do. She barred the windows in the wagon, but couldn't decide if she should stay in the wagon—and be a fish in a barrel—or get into the inner circle, with others around her to defend and be defended by.

"Shards and shells, I've never seen so many whers in a single raid!" she heard Trosanna say from the driver's seat, before her crossbow fired.

Merelan found a kitchen knife in a drawer, a big heavy cleaver. Then, worried it wouldn't be enough, she found a heavy iron pan lid. She gripped the handle in her hand and turned the lid outwards, like a shield, and hoped that in all the Harper stagery she had learned, there was a kernel of truth about how to use a shield. And then Trosanna called out, "Merelan! Cut the traces! Cut the traces or the runners will panic and break the circle!"

So Merelan ducked out, starting to feel very weak already, and dropped the lid to pull parts of the harness on the shivering, dancing runners taut. Then she cut, and cut again, until both runners were free and surging into the center of the circle.

"Inside! Inside!"

At that second command, Merelan laid the knife on the floor of the driver's seat, and struggled to haul herself up. Her breath was starting to wheeze. But she got the knife and pot lid, and got into the wagon, Trosanna following behind, crossbow pointed out.

A second later there was a loud _crash_ as something hit the side of the wagon, near the roof. Merelan screamed, and claws scrabbled outside, the deep renting sounds making it clear they were finding plenty of hold on the wood of the wagon. If only this had been a Pass, with wagons covered in steel! But it wasn't, and she could hear the wher heave its heavy body onto the top of the wagon.

"Shells and shards," Trosanna muttered. "Shells and _shards_. They're not wing-clipped!"

There were more sounds as other whers leapt to the top of wagons, wings flapping, or forced themselves into the open spaces between driver's seat and the end of the previous wagon. The sounds of fighting drifted in, and the wher on top of their wagon leapt off into the inner circle with enough force to lift their wagon off one half of its wheels for a second, before crashing to the ground again. There was another scream from a wher, and this one Merelan felt down to her heels, as if the sound had crawled inside her skin to spread agony and rage.

And then one of them, a small scabby-looking green, jumped onto the driver's seat, and sensed the two women within.

Trosanna let off a wild shot, but it didn't hit, and the green wher surged forward, still blindfolded, and seized her flailing hand in its teeth.

"No!" Merelan shouted and flung the pot lid at it.

It let out a weird scream-cough as the pot hit its face, right where the blindfolded eyes were, let go, and it looked like it was about to run, but then it surged forward again, and caught the other woman by the leg.

"No, no, by Faranth's blood, don't—"

Merelan grabbed Trosanna with her left arm, and kicked out at the wher. But the wher seemed to hardly feel the strikes of her boot upon its flesh. It was like kicking a leather sofa; slight give overlying heavy bones, but no movement whatsoever. She knew she should use the knife, but...couldn't. She couldn't slice open a living creature, heavens help her. And then, with a powerful movement of its body, it flung itself out of the wagon with its prize, and Merelan tried to hold on to her friend, but didn't have the strength. She fell, and Trosanna was gone.

_You have to get up. You have to get up,_ Merelan told herself. She raised herself up on one arm, but her whole body was shaking and trembling as with fever, and she felt as weak as a kitten. Her breath came in rails, wheezing, a queer whistling note each time she inhaled. Her mind railed at her frail shell—save Trosanna! Save herself! But the body was too weak. She let out a sob and clutched the knife to herself. She should have used it. But she hadn't. She couldn't. But she should have.

And then another wher found the opening of the driver's seat, and this one, a blue, was not blindfolded. Hostile orange eyes glowed into the gloom inside. But unlike the scabby green, the chains that hung down from its sensitive nose were held by a man. He looked down at her, sprawled on her side and wheezing, and said, "You'll do."

#

"Have you considered, Master Petiron, that your son might not be fit for fostering?"

Petiron wiped a hand over his long face. He did not want to hear this. And what did that _mean_, anyway? "If a child is fostered, he's fostered. If he's not, he's not. I never had a say in the matter, myself, and I came out fine." Then he asked, begrudgingly of the foster mother who had taken Robinton in at Fort Hold. "Is he causing trouble?"

Dexmore took that as permission to enter his office and take one of the seat Journeymen or Apprentices usually took. "Not any more than other boys, and less than most. But he looks peaky."

"You've taken him to a healer?"

"It's not that sort of ailment. Sometimes he won't want to play with the others, and instead he'll sit quietly and watch the doorway, or stare out the window. Two nights ago, he woke up crying for his mother, afraid she was being eaten by whers or some such nightmare. His fears seem to be solidifying."

"I'm not sure where he would have even seen a wher," Petiron said. "You're not taking him up to their den, are you,?" he asked with a sardonic arch of his eyebrow.

"Well, they're in the rhyming songs. He has a vivid imagination; a wher to him could stand for anything frightening, such as change."

"I suppose they are rather ugly," Petiron said, not inclined to explore the psychology of a young child.

"For sure."

"But all children have nightmares. Why do you suddenly conclude he's not 'fit' for fostering?"

Dexmore sat for a moment, taking time to choose her words. Then she said, "You seem like a man, to me, who wants the best for his son."

"I do. His mother and I are very busy people, and can't devote the time caring for him that he needs."

"I can understand that. But sometimes certain children are a bit...sensitive. Socially oriented, you could say. Gentle."

Petiron frowned.

"I might even be so bold as to suggest he resembles you in coloring—but his mother in temperament."

Petiron continued to frown. "So you are telling me other children may start to bully him? See him as feminine?"

"Huh? No, no not at all. Besides, even if it were true, isn't the Harper Hall as famous a destination for those sorts as the Weyr?"

The Composition Master blinked once, then shrugged. "I don't know," he said, keeping his opinion to himself. "Besides. He may not have musical talent. Children are not clones of their parents, you know."

"I'm well aware of that. And, because as you say all children are individuals, some do better in fostering than others."

Petiron tried to frown, realized he already was, and pursed his lips for a second before letting his face ease. "Do you need me to locate another foster mother? Is that what you're telling me?"

Dexmore hesitated. "No. Robinton is a joy to be around. I just want to make sure he finds joy too. Otherwise, how could I possibly be a good foster mother?"

See, this is what Merelan did not _see_. That there were very capable, very loving women who could give _undivided_ attention to their son, who had _time_ to consider all these details. Petiron smiled. "Well, I appreciate your concerns. I still think you are the best fosterer my son could have, until he is old enough to enter a Craft."

"I see," Dexmore said. Then she sighed, and smiled. "Well, he's an adorable little boy. If a child is pleasant at _this_ age, you usually have little to fear until adolescence kicks in!"

"You've more tolerance and experience with young children than I, so I'll take your word for it," Petiron said. "That being said, I'm due to conduct rehearsal shortly—"

"Oh! Yes, of course. You have your duties, Master Composer. As do I." And taking his cue as well as any Harper, she stood up and curtsied. "Have a good evening, Master Petiron."

"And you," Petiron said.

#

Dexmore had not been particularly attuned to the going-ons in either Crafthold that flanked Fort. Her previous foster, Periel, had just entered the Minecraft Hall as an apprentice a turn ago, and she had not realized what a hole the lack of little feet left in her life. Her husband, however, was a Harper by training although he worked as a clerk in Fort Hold and reported directly to the Lord these days, his writing and reading skills stronger than his musical ones, and had suggested looking at the Crafthalls when there were no other recently weaned children at Fort. So she had, and before she knew it, a remarkable little boy had been put into her care.

She just hadn't realized husband and wife weren't in accord in their wishes when the sire had delivered him to her.

Now days she knew better. Partly from finally picking up the gossip, and partly through observation. She only wish she'd known better _before_—otherwise she wouldn't have warned the boy's mother off. In fact, she would have told the sire not to do it. A faint blush warmed her cheeks as she thought of it. Sometimes, mothers _did_ want to foster, but were still clingy, confusing the child as to which adult to obey, and a stern word would set things right. But this was an entirely different case, and she'd had no right to tell the mother to stay away.

When Merelan left, just about a month ago now, Robinton had seemed all right. But as time passed, and she didn't come home, his behavior changed. So she reported it to the sire. Who, clearly, had no understanding of the situation. Or perhaps simply did not care as much as his pretty words said otherwise.

She wished Robinton didn't have such fool parents as he obviously did. And she hoped it wasn't hubris that made her think, deep down inside, that she and her husband could be better at it than those two Harpers were.

When she returned to her quarters at Fort that evening, she found her husband demonstrating wood carving to the child. Robinton seemed fascinated by it, but sat on his hands as if he were scared of being accidentally carved up. Or, perhaps her husband had already told him to look and not touch. She bustled around their quarters, cleaning up, as he did this, and smiled when her husband finished, and presented Robinton with a little wooden toy, while admonishing the child to be careful with it, because it's wood, and wood was rare.

"Not as rare these days," she said as Robinton went off to play with his prize. "There are forests everywhere."

Her husband put his tools away into their case, then stood up and stretched, his belly straining against his shirt. "Technically, I guess. Good luck getting much wood out of them."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Woodsie folk," he said. "They're a thorn in this Hold's side. Little better than Holdless. Can you believe they make their Holds out of the stuff now too? I don't know how; wood rots, carries mold and insects. Seems a disgusting, dirty way to live. But it's not as bad here as they have it out east—I've heard it said they raise whers out there." He shook his head to himself, and took his tools to the closet to put them away. "And then they stop anyone from harvesting on what should be free and open land, demanding an outrageous amount of marks or trade goods."

"I suppose you've seen these demands," Dexmore said.

"Yes, all the time, the Lord is tiring of dealing with them. We're Pernese; we don't need wood. We never had much of it during a Pass. Don't need it now. I suppose it's different if you're a seahold, though..."

"Or a mine," she said.

"Eh?"

"Miners use it to shore up the walls."

"Ah. That too. But they reuse the struts once a mine's worked out." He sighed. "Ah, well. Perhaps it's a benefit. Imagine what would happen to marks if good wood was plentiful!"

"Not thinking of counterfeiting again, are you?" she asked drily.

"I haven't the skill, and you know it. Now, I think it's just about dinner time. Let's collect the boy and go downstairs, shall we?"


End file.
